thewesterly
Death at McDonald’s
“Time of death: just after ten in the morning.” The coroner stood, turning away from the body sprawled on the linoleum.
“Place’s fulla witnesses,” muttered a detective. “Anyone see what happened?”
“Guy tries to order an Egg McMuffin, then just collapses? Doesn’t make any sense,” said the blonde girl.
“Probably an aneurysm. Rage-induced. What do you think, Horatio?”
“Looks like this guy was in the right place,” replied the detective, pulling out his sunglasses as he approached the door, “… at the wrong time.”
YEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!
IRON SIGHTS
BOSS FIGHTS
COME AND GET YOUR HEAD SHOT
GLOWIN’ RED
UNARMORED HEAD
HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT
OH
I’M THE MOTHERFUCKIN’ BOSS OF THIS LEVEL, G
I’M THIRTY FUCKIN’ FEET TALL, WALL TO WALL NASTY
GONNA HAVE TO SHOOT THROUGH ME IF YOU WANNA GET PAST ME
HAVE A BLAST, G; I MEAN THAT LITERALLY
I GOT FLAME BREATH, SPIKY CLAWS
TAIL SWEEP MASSIVE JAWS
PAY NO ATTENTION TO THAT GIANT TARGET ON MY TORSO
THAT’S JUST FOR DECORATION. IT’S LIKE A LOGO, ONLY MORESO
MY ATTACKS ARE RELENTLESS; I BET YOU’RE DEFENSELESS
ALSO I’M DEVIOUS; THE TAIL SWIPE IS PREVIOUS
TO THE FLOOR POUND, ONE MORE ROUND THEN I’M BACK TO THE TOP
BUT YOU’RE PRETTY STUPID AND YOU’LL PROBABLY NEVER FIGURE IT OUT
About me
If someone who knew nothing about me were to look at my most recent couple pages of twitter posts, they’d assume that I am straight, in a committed relationship, pro-gay-rights, and extremely liberal. They’d figure I was a guy who overclocks his CPU, runs Windows (but dabbles in Linux), plays PC games, has an Android phone, likes terrible jokes, is lactose intolerant, and probably plays pen-and-paper RPGs. They’d assume that I’m slightly pedantic, and that I listen to The Arcade Fire, chiptunes, and nerdy hip-hop.
They’d be correct on all counts. I’m pretty pleased by that.
Also, I have no brain filter.
an imaginary conversation with a slightly manic pig en route to the slaughterhouse.txt
Last weekend I went back to my parents’ house to watch my little brother graduate from high school. My sister Naomi, who is a creative writing teacher, gave me five minutes to write a seven-line poem containing the following ten words: ham, laugh smile, blister, rust, ancestor, legitimate, mournful, recollection, exhilaration, crucial.
To my recollection, he smiled:
My ancestors never had time to rust
Before their backs blistered.
We’re bred for it. We play a crucial part.
It’s a legitimate occupation, he squealed in exhiliration.
Although not so pleasant to watch.
This is no time to mourn, laughed the future ham.
Beautiful sad songs never bring me down.
